by Emma Lathen
And even Fran could do no better than, “If they’d only stick to contests, it wouldn’t be so bad. At least they know how to do that.”
All three looked at each other with such fellow feeling that Thatcher knew only the presence of outsiders was preventing a general dissection of Vandam’s.
“Makes Wisconsin Seed look good, doesn’t it?” Charlie whispered to him.
“At least they’re united,” Thatcher began, only to be halted by the clatter of a spoon on glass.
The master of ceremonies was introducing the featured speaker of the evening.
“Neither Hendrik Vandam nor the illustrious company for which he is spokesman needs any introduction. They have both secured for themselves a firm place in our affections and respect by their untiring devotion to . . .”
Chapter 14
Winter Kill
WHATEVER the annual banquet of the American Sweet Pea Society represented to others, it was an unalloyed triumph for Mrs. Mary Larrabee. How much of a triumph she did not realize until later in the evening.
From the First rewriting of the Vandam catalog, Mary had been the unwitting beneficiary of the Numero Uno battle. Her Firecracker now adorned the cover, her success was now spread over the space originally intended for biennial tomatoes. And, although the Vandams might engage in other private activities, in public they behaved as if their main reason for being in Chicago was to beat the drums for Mary Larrabee. Then, when the time came for the official award, old Hendrik Vandam let himself go. Every courtly instinct, honed by years at flower shows, was called into play as he benignly hailed her achievement. His grandiloquent tribute demanded more from Mary than the simple acknowledgment she had planned. So, flustered and stammering, she proceeded to tell the world about her pleasure in gardening, her pride in past flower beds, her vision of future arbors.
When the banquet broke up, several commercial interests sitting at widely separated tables had come to the same conclusion. The president of Hogarth Equipment, Inc., was the first to accost Dick Vandam.
“You know, Dick,” he said, “I think that little lady would be perfect promotion for our rototiller.”
As the Vandam catalog accounted for fully a third of the sales of the Hogarth rototiller, he was not speaking to a disinterested observer.
“That’s not a bad idea,” Vandam agreed. “But we can’t talk here. I’ll tell you what. We’ll bring the Larrabees up to your suite, and we’ll see how they feel about it.”
At first, the Vandams were filled with pride in the success of their protégé. Forming themselves into a phalanx, they escorted her upstairs to the Hogarth suite and prepared to radiate approval on the union between Mary and rototillers: But as word of her location spread and more and more supplicants appeared, it was one rude shock after another.
One of the judges of the sweet pea contest was the editor of a national gardening magazine. Seized with the idea of a monthly column by Mary, he was determined to speak to her. At the same time he had no intention of releasing his grip on Mrs. Pendleton, who was producing the most photogenic roses he had yet seen. A joint descent on Suite 1408 was what he had in mind.
Fran cast an apologetic glance at her husband. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to him, “but it won’t take long, and it will be good publicity for IPR.”
She need not have worried. Manlike, Howard had only one ambition after those long speeches.
“They serve drinks, don’t they?” he grunted.
Their arrival was the first fly in the Vandam ointment.
“I don’t like the Pendletons being here,” protested Milton. “We should keep the sweet pea separate from the Numero Uno mess.”
“What do you expect me to do about it?” retorted Dick. “I can’t throw them out, this isn’t our suite.”
Nowadays, Jason opposed Cousin Milton on principle. “And it’s not a particularly good time to offend the Pendletons,” he pointed out. “The lawyers are going to be taking their depositions next week.”
Hard on the heels of the editor came a horde of others. John Thatcher and Charlie Trinkam arrived to find Mary agreeing to appear on a local talk show, while other claimants waited their turn.
“I’ll be damned if I know what they all see in her,” Dick Vandam complained to Thatcher at the bar.
Thatcher, looking across the room at the heroine of the hour, thought he understood. Every generation has produced an ephemeral woman. Once gone forever, she becomes wrapped in the misty tendrils of nostalgia. There was the pioneer mother, there was the Gibson girl, there was the Charleston flapper. In a world where young women were living with lovers, pursuing masculine careers and marching at the head of protest demonstrations, Mary Larrabee was about to be enshrined as the apotheosis of a vanishing breed, the American housewife.
Before Thatcher could outline this theory, the arrival of Dick’s father silenced him.
Hendrik was breathing fire. “Do you know who’s trying to sign her up now?” He named Shawmut, the country’s largest producer of lawn seed, lawn fertilizer, and weed killer. “They want to use her as their TV symbol, and they’re in direct competition with us!”
“Now don’t get excited, Dad.” Dick’s own control seemed to benefit from someone else’s jitters. “We can’t expect Mrs. Larrabee to understand the difference between our competitors and people who sell through us. We’ll just go over there and explain it to her. You’d better do it. After all, you’re the one who handed her the check.”
Father and son stalked off, leaving Thatcher to his own devices. He was joined instantly by a stranger who peeled off from a nearby group.
“I overheard that. So they’re going to explain things to Mary, are they?” he remarked jovially. “Well, good luck to them.”
Then, seeing Thatcher’s incomprehension, he held out his hand. “Pete Larrabee’s the name. Thanks for taking Mary to the market while I was asleep.”
Thatcher examined his companion. When the limelight and a golden shower of dollars unexpectedly descend on a middle-aged wife, the husband normally experiences a momentary spasm of discomfiture. But Pete Larrabee seemed entirely free from any such gêne. Thatcher introduced himself and complimented Larrabee on his composure.
Larrabee sounded almost religious. “I told Mary to take them for every penny she could get,” he said stoutly.
“Ah!”
That explained it. Larrabee was simply beginning where most husbands ended.
“You see,” Larrabee continued, “last month my eldest boy got accepted by MIT.”
Again Thatcher congratulated him.
“I thought it was wonderful, too, until I saw how much it was going to cost. Then I went into shock.”
What’s more, inspection of his family indicated that within four short years Pete would have three children in pursuit of higher education. Now was the perfect time for the Larrabees to acquire a second breadwinner.
“If that’s the case, don’t you think you should be over there supporting Mary?” Thatcher suggested.
Pete smiled fondly. “Don’t let those looks fool you. I’m the guy who was standing at her shoulder when we came to Chicago to redo the living room. She got a decorator’s discount, she got free delivery to North Dakota, and she got them to go back to the manufacturer and have arm sleeves made up for everything. Listen, when she bought her last car, she negotiated for three weeks. By the time she was done she had so many options thrown in, the dealer was dizzy.
Nobody can teach Mary anything about bargaining.”
On the other side of the room Mrs. Larrabee was proving worthy of her husband’s confidence. She listened in becoming confusion to Hendrik Vandam’s labored explanations. She gave little yips of comprehension at the distinction between competitor and non-competitor. She reacted to familiar trade names with beaming gratification.
Then she twinkled merrily and said, “I’m so unbusinesslike, you’ll just have to forgive me, Mr. Vandam. But I don’t remember anything about this in the contest app
lication.”
With a lurch in his stomach, Dick Vandam realized that there was no such clause in the application or any of the subsequent documentation. Mrs. Mary Larrabee was free to exploit her victory in any manner she chose, and she knew it. Hendrik might go on expecting miracles from his old-fashioned charm, but Dick sensed that nothing was going to stand between the Larrabees and a munificent TV contract. In the months to come he could look forward to seeing Mary’s image touting someone else’s products. Muttering an apology, he left his father to the doomed cause and melted back into the crowded room.
By the time he bumped into Fran Pendleton, he was in the mood to appreciate old friends and proven allies.
“Fran!” he cried with excessive cordiality. “I’m glad to see you. Wherever I go, I hear good things about your floribunda work.”
Fran, who had written him off as a cold fish years ago, was surprised.
“And I hope you know that we’ll be interested in the results, once you’re finished.”
Now Fran was even more surprised. It would be normal routine for her to offer the rights to Vandam’s.
“I’m glad to hear it,” she said temperately.
Then, like everyone striving to spark an emotional response, he went too far. Just before leaving her, he clasped her elbow and said warmly, “And if we do market it, I wouldn’t be surprised if we called it the Mrs. Howard Pendleton rose.”
Fran herself was speechless from a variety of emotions, but a newcomer broke into sardonic laughter.
“Isn’t that wonderful! That yo-yo doesn’t understand that you name roses after women who’ve had nothing to do with their development, not the geneticist. Poor Fran! He’s not even going to make it the Frances Pendleton rose.”
“Scotty! What are you doing here?”
He grinned at her. “Why shouldn’t I be here? As a matter of fact, the Hogarth people want to talk to Ned about retailing their stuff if we start a mail-order catalog.”
Fran had been trying to look severe, but now two dimples appeared. “Oh, Dick Vandam will love that when he hears it,” she said, making no attempt to hide her satisfaction.
“He deserves whatever lumps he gets. Apart from everything else, he shouldn’t be allowed to name anything. First he hangs that rinky-dink Numero Uno tag on my tomato, and now he wants to embarrass you in public.”
The dimples disappeared. “Your tomato, Scott?”
“That’s right.” Wenzel looked at her with a challenging gleam in his eye. “You may as well face it, Fran. That tomato is going out under our label. We’ve got all the proof we need to win.”
Suddenly Fran sighed. “I do wish you’d grow up, Scott. You make this sound like a college football game. This isn’t a matter of cheerleaders and fight songs. A lot of people are miserable.”
“If you’re asking me to be a bleeding heart for Vandam’s—”
“Oh, forget your obsession with Vandam’s,” she snapped at him. “I know all about their turning you down five years ago. I sometimes think it addled your brain. You’re a lot better off on your own.”
“All right, all right, I know that.”
Fran swept right over him. “If you stopped thinking about them for a minute, you’d see that there are other people involved. There’s Howard, for one. These meetings have been a living hell for him, thanks to you.”
“He shouldn’t have agreed to whitewash Vandam’s,” Wenzel said sulkily enough to lend substance to Fran’s charge of childishness.
“And then there’s Barbara.”
“Oh, for God’s sake! What am I supposed to have done to her?”
Fran gave him a long level glance. “I’m not sure,” she said slowly. “But I know she’s wretched at being caught in the middle. You’ve put her in a crunch between you and Howard, and you know she’s not tough enough for that kind of pressure.”
“How did I know Howard was going to deal himself in? Why don’t you blame him? I was here first.”
Fran paid no attention. “And you don’t seem to be helping her at all. You’re just overloading her with work.”
At last they were on sure ground for Wenzel. “I’ve already told her she can have some time off. And if you’d stop carping at me, Fran, you’d see all this is temporary. Sure, it’s a little tough on Barbara right now, but she’ll be giving her deposition in a couple of days and then the pressure will be off.”
Unfortunately a gap in the crowd swirling about them enabled Fran to spot Barbara, trapped in a corner and listening reluctantly to Milton Vandam.
“Oh, that is just too much,” she cried, pointing them out to Wenzel. “Somebody should break that up.”
“I’m always glad to have a bash at a Vandam,” he volunteered cheerfully.
Fran could imagine Scott’s method of tactful intervention. “Not you,” she said grimly. “I’ll get Howard.”
But the first familiar face she encountered belonged to Eric Most. “Eric, have you seen Howard?” she demanded imperatively. “I need him.”
“He’s over there with the agricultural attaché from Venezuela,” said Most, who was still dazzled by the international reach of IPR. “Anything I can do?”
“No thank you, Eric. I want somebody to rescue Barbara Gunn from the Vandams, and I think Howard had better do it.”
Eric Most’s reaction to this information more than confirmed her judgment. “My God, what’s she doing here?” he asked in disgust. “Are the others from Wisconsin Seedsmen here?”
Why did everybody act as if this were a Vandam bedroom? Fran wondered. “Indeed they are,” she said crisply. “I’ve just been listening to Scotty Wenzel tell me about his tomato.”
Most reddened. “He’s simply trying to get to us. Wenzel knows damn well my notebooks are conclusive evidence. What the hell is wrong with him?”
Fran prepared to move on. “He’s conceited,” she said with utterly no inflection. “Quite a few young men are.”
It was a failing that many of them outgrew, she reflected, when she located her husband and found him both responsive and cooperative. With the ease of long practice the Pendletons traded places, with Howard speeding off to relieve the siege and Fran taking on the Venezuelan attaché.
20 minutes later, when she had firmly established the relevance of several IPR projects to agricultural needs in South America, she was once again at leisure to glance toward Barbara’s corner. Howard was nowhere to be seen, but he had done his work well. There was not a Vandam in sight and Barbara was deep in conversation with the guest of honor.
Mary Larrabee and Barbara Gunn had found an interest in common the moment Howard introduced them. Mary, after detailing her son’s triumph with his College Boards, had uttered a prayer of gratitude for the Firecracker windfall.
“Because college costs have gone up so much since our day. You wouldn’t believe how much tuition is now.”
“Oh, wouldn’t I just!” exclaimed Barbara, her eyes brightening. “I’m going back to school myself next fall.”
Mary was flatteringly impressed. “I think that’s wonderful. I know a lot of women are doing that. Would you believe it, one of my neighbors back home has started going to law school now that her children are off her hands.”
“Well, I’m not waiting that long. My little girl will just be starting school. Of course, it’s different being a widow.”
Sympathetically Mary Larrabee studied this slight, frail girl who seemed far too insecure to juggle the roles of widow, mother, and student. But being a kindhearted woman, she provided what encouragement she could.
“It can’t be harder than what you’re already doing. Didn’t Dr. Pendleton say you’re working for a seed company? And with your daughter still so young? College is bound to be easier.”
But she had said the wrong thing. Because the terrible pinched look was back again.
“It’s got to be,” Barbara burst out. “I can’t go through any more of this. But sometimes I think leaving my job, going back to school, having Tracy at
my parents’, is all a dream. That it will never happen and this treadmill will just go on and on.”
Mary did not like the rising note of hysteria. Maybe Barbara Gunn was simply an overworked, overtired woman. But it sounded more deep-rooted. Before Mary could formulate a cautious probe, her attention was demanded elsewhere.
“Wait a minute, Pete,” she said, “I’ll be with you in a second.”
But turning, she found that Barbara Gunn had taken advantage of her momentary preoccupation to slip away.
“Oh, dear, that’s too bad. I think that girl may be in real trouble.”
“If she is, she’ll find her way back to you, honey. You’ve got a real gift for the lame ducks. In the meantime, you remember John Thatcher? I think he may be able to do a lot for us.”
To her infinite surprise, Mary discovered that Pete felt that among the many new faces entering her life, a manager, an agent, a housekeeper, there should probably be a banker. The talk moved on to trusts, tax shelters, retirement plans. Pete Larrabee, as Thatcher had already discovered, liked to think big.
But Mary preferred concrete details. “Did you say photographers?” she asked, grasping the one familiar word to come her way.
“Sure, honey, you’re going to be a news feature. They’re on their way up, now.”
Mary grabbed a mirror from her purse, took one horrified look and fled to the ladies’ room.
She never went farther than the anteroom with its long mirror and vanity table. In the first moment of shock and horror, she realized that the cowardly thought echoing through her mind was: Why did it have to be me?
Because twisted in a heap on the rumpled carpet, lying in a pool of vomit, was the body of Barbara Gunn.
Chapter 15
Faintly Aromatic
ROOTED to the spot, unable to move forward or backward, Mary Larrabee pressed her hands to her eyes and loosed one shrill scream after another.
Her husband was among the group that burst in upon her. Thereafter Mary was the only person in the suite who was not swept up in the crisis of fetching a doctor, calling the police, deciding what to do, and what not to do. Oblivious to all the confusion, she huddled in Pete’s arms and repeated over and over, “I was awful. I didn’t even go to her.”
